


sugar never ever was so sweet

by chinhasleftthechat



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Blowjobs, F/M, kind of, risky business at dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-15 01:15:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10547542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chinhasleftthechat/pseuds/chinhasleftthechat
Summary: Beyoncé has a lot to think about and do on her birthday.





	1. dying for you, crying for you

“Beyoncé! You don't wanna be late for your birthday dinner and lose the reservation, baby, let's go!” Jordan yells from the bottom of the staircase. 

 

Beyoncé hears Jordan, but she doesn't respond. She sits in front of her vanity mirror, putting her earrings on and looking at herself, contemplative. Her life's changed drastically compared to the year before, and every now and then that fact leaves her guessing as to how and when whatever mightier powers out there let her get lucky. She's comfortable; she's got a husband who, despite jumping through the most ridiculous hoops to marry her after a mere eight months of knowing her, she knows loves her and cares more about her than anyone ever could, even her own. She doesn't have to worry about money, she has her aforementioned husband, crazy for her as ever, to take care of her. Not only is she taken care of, but so is her mother, who worked hard for years just to see her daughter do the same for a few seconds compared to her. Beyoncé sees her mother being accounted for as a sort of thanks, and she knows that it's seen as such. She still worries if things will ever change; if her and Jordan stop working for each other, even though Jordan assured her that would never happen- at the very least not on his end. She knows she loves Jordan more than anyone, of course she knows that, but she has self-doubt residing in her that she can't shake. That's solely her problem, and she's thankful that it isn't caused by anyone else. Beyonce hears Jordan trudging up the stairs and rushes to put her lipstick on. 

 

“Beyoncé Giselle, if you don't come out of that damn room before we're late…” Jordan says as he peeks into his and Beyoncé's bedroom, his voice softening as he looks at her. “‘m gonna carry you outta here myself, beautiful.”

 

Beyoncé smiles warmly.

 

“1, 2, 3,” Jordan starts. Beyoncé's brow furrows. “Don't wanna get to five, Bey.”

 

Beyoncé figures something is going to happen, so she hurries to put her things in her purse so she wouldn't forget anything after whatever was going to happen happened. 

 

Jordan hurriedly finishes counting and rushes at her, picking her up out of the chair she'd been sitting in. He takes care not to wrinkle her gown too much and he starts carrying her out of the room. 

 

Beyoncé giggles. “Wait, I need to get my purse.”

 

Jordan carries Beyoncé back over to her vanity and leans down so she can grab what she needs. 

 

“Okay, we can go now.”

 

“Oh, so you think you’ve got some kind of free ride now, huh?” Jordan asks as he carries Beyoncé downstairs. 

 

“Mhm.” Beyoncé grins. 

 

“You aren't wrong,” Jordan says, “I  _ would  _ carry you over a burning bridge and stuff if I had to.”

 

Beyoncé looks at Jordan in amazement, and it's not something that's newfound, either; Jordan's lack of hesitation to let her know how he feels about her was something she didn't have a hard time getting used to, especially when all he felt most of the time was a sort of weird, but not uncomfortable, amount of love for her. 

 

“Stop,” she says bashfully. 

 

“You know I’m bad at not running my mouth, Bey,” Jordan says, opening the front door and taking the both of them to the limo waiting outside. 

 

He lets her get in first and then follows suit, telling the driver that he already knows where to go. With that, they're on the road. Jordan checks his watch. 

 

“We’ll get there with about five minutes to spare,” Jordan says, relaxing in his seat. 

 

Beyoncé gently pulls Jordan closer to her by his tie, looking him in the eye. “You’re stressing.”

 

Jordan attempts to fix his demeanor. “I’m not, baby. Promise.”

 

“I can see right through you, J,” Beyoncé says. “so stop.”

 

Jordan sighs, smiling at Beyoncé softly. “I’m not stressed.”

 

“Aw, really?” Beyoncé asks, kissing down Jordan's jawline. Her hand makes its way from his chest to his thigh, where she absentmindedly scratches her nails against it faintly. “‘Cause I was gonna help you blow off some steam if you really needed me to.”

 

“You’re gonna- your- fuck, uh,” Jordan stutters, trying to recall something while Beyoncé kisses at his face, humming happily. 

 

“What?” she asks. 

 

“Your- what the fuck is the fuckin’--” Jordan motions as if he's putting lipstick on. “--lipstick! Yeah, your lipstick- isn't it gonna get messed up?”

 

Beyoncé huffs out a breath, clearly amused, and proceeds to kiss Jordan while she palms him though his pants. He lets a short-lived noise of appreciation out and she bites his lip, messing with his pants. Nimble fingers work quickly to get them undone, and as she unzips them she notices a lack of underwear immediately. 

 

“Oh,” Beyoncé says quietly, “happy birthday to me.” 

 

Jordan breathes out a laugh, running a hand through his hair and slinging his arms around the back of the seats, slouching a slight bit. “Thought I’d make things easier for you.”

 

“You sound like you just  _ knew  _ I was gonna want some dick tonight,” she says, slipping to her knees on the floor of the limo. 

 

“I can see right through you Beyoncé,” Jordan says mockingly, “so stop.”

 

Beyoncé smiles before she wraps her lips around the head of his dick, teasing the slit with her tongue. She sucks gently, eliciting a soft sigh from Jordan. 

 

“Look at me, birthday girl,” Jordan says. Beyoncé looks up at him, bobbing her head and holding what isn't in her mouth.  

 

Jordan moans quietly. “I think your eyes are shining extra bright ‘cause it's your birthday.”

 

If Beyoncé could smile, she would, but she settles for one of many happy hums to come from her that day and bats her eyelashes a few times. 

 

“Mama, it kinda feels like it's my birthday and not yours,” Jordan says, smoothing a hand over her hair that's been cut into a bob specifically for her birthday. “Watching you be so beautiful is a gift all in itself.”

 

Beyoncé comes off of Jordan with a pop. “Corny,” she says, crawling into the seat next to him and stroking him leisurely. 

 

“Can't help it.”

 

“Wanna know what I noticed?” Beyoncé asks. 

 

“What, mama?” Jordan replies. 

 

“We’re a little too sober,” Beyoncé says lowly into Jordan's ear. 

 

“Baby, you know the real festivities come after the party,” Jordan says with a smirk as Beyoncé runs a hand back and forth across his chest, lips capturing hers in a sweet kiss. She laughs into it. 

 

“Boss,” their driver interrupts, “you’re here, with five minutes to spare.”

 

“Thanks, Shawn,” Jordan says, fixing his pants. 

 

“What’re you gonna do about-”

 

“Purse.”

 

Beyoncé grins. “Quick thinker.”

 

“You know it, baby, that's why we can ride around everywhere in a limo and I can fuck you in it ‘til we get to wherever we're going,” Jordan says, taking Beyoncé's purse and holding it in front of him strategically. He steps out of the car, flashes from cameras going off around him as he extends his hand for Beyoncé to take. She takes it and steps out of the car, opening the fan she’d brought with her and shielding her face from the cameras in an act of drama.

 

Paparazzi ask a flurry of questions and they ignore them, but when one asks about Jordan’s supposed coke habit, he laughs.

 

“Shit, how’s your knees?”

 

“Why do you ask that, Mr. Ullman?”

  
“You’re sucking on my fucking dick like you don’t have anything better to do, man,” Jordan says before he walks into the restaurant with Beyoncé.


	2. boom, bang, blast

As Beyoncé sits in the booth in the corner of an empty restaurant Jordan rented out, she stares at a menu; she's seen it many times before and she knows what she wants, but the high prices still shock her despite such things being a normal part of her lifestyle. Her outfit had to be worth at least half a million dollars and, again, her husband had easily coughed up enough money to allow them to sit in a five-star restaurant alone. At times, Beyoncé feels as if she shouldn't be messing with such a lifestyle, and when she self-reflects, she sees herself changing into more and more of a materialistic woman. However, she's beginning to figure, it's not so bad to appreciate good things when they're handed to you- or, in Beyoncé's case- when you buy them. 

 

Jordan orders for her, seeing as the both of them frequent this restaurant together enough to memorize each other's orders.  

 

“You didn't have to do this, Jordan,” Beyoncé says, taking a sip of her wine and quietly thanking the waitress for bringing their food.

 

“Maybe so, but the thing is, I wanted to,” Jordan says, smiling at her. “‘Cause I love you. Do you like it?”

 

Beyoncé looks out the window, watching as cars come and pass. “Like” was a word of understatement- so was “love” and every other synonym known to man. Beyoncé looks at Jordan, who puts his hand over hers as it sits on the table. She smiles and nods. 

 

“Good,” Jordan says, gently grabbing her face and stroking it with his thumb. His usually pale blue eyes reflect off of the garishly ugly green dress shirt she bought him as a joke, making them appear to be a light green, and they peer into her vibrant, deep, honey-colored ones. “you know I only want the best for my girl.”

 

Beyoncé leans forward, her lips meeting Jordan's softly. When they separate, Beyoncé runs her hands and nails against his stubble idly, still gazing into his eyes. “I love you.”

 

“I love you too.”

 

“You know,” Beyoncé says as she kisses Jordan's face multiple times after barely eating any food, “this food is good, but I’m craving dessert, baby.”

 

“We can order that chocolate cake you like so much,” Jordan says, playing dumb. 

 

“Baby,” Beyoncé whines. 

 

Jordan kisses her, and her hand creeps up his thigh. He gives her a stern look. “Be good. Wait.”

 

“But you haven't touched me all day, Jordy,” Beyoncé complains. 

 

“And I’m not about to start by doing this in a restaurant with you, me, and a few employees in it. Now pipe down before you talk yourself out of getting fucked on the way home,” Jordan says quietly into Beyoncé's ear, biting at it gently. “‘Cause I know that's your favorite.”

 

Beyoncé's thighs press together at Jordan's threat. She quiets. 

 

“You aren't gonna say thank you?”

 

“For what, Jordan?” Beyoncé asks with an attitude. 

 

“Me giving you leeway,” Jordan says with a sly smile as he starts eating again. 

 

“Fuck you,” Beyoncé mumbles into her wine glass, taking a sip and playfully knocking shoulders with Jordan. 

 

“Oh, baby,” Jordan tells her with a sigh, “I love you too.”

 

Beyoncé goes back to quietly eating, and after a few moments of deliberation, she decides that she’s actually upset about Jordan saying no, so she delivers short, half-assed replies when Jordan talks to her. 

 

“Baby,” Jordan says knowingly, “don't do this here.”

 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Beyoncé responds somewhat indignantly. 

 

She knew what he was talking about; she was beginning to throw a slightly juvenile fit over the fact that Jordan had told her no. Him denying her is a rare occasion and most of the time she gets what she wants at some point down the line anyway, but she knows what she wants- and she'd like to have it on-demand, not on Jordan's time. Really, she figures, what the fuck does he know anyway? If Jordan really cared about her, he’d know that some things just can't wait. 

 

“Giselle, you do know. That act stopped working with me after you tried it when you got drunk while we were still dating and asked me if we could get all the members of the Backstreet Boys to live with us and sing for us anytime we wanted,” Jordan says. 

 

“You and AJ could've been bad boy friends!” Beyoncé complains. “But aside from that, there's no  _ act  _ here, I’m just eating my food. Leave me alone.”

 

“You’re acting bratty because I told you no.”

 

Beyoncé’s fork drops onto her plate with a jarring clattering noise. “The fucking nerve- Jordan, it's my birthday!” Beyoncé exclaims, exasperated. 

 

“I know it's your birthday. Doesn't mean everything  _ has  _ to go your way.”

 

“You’re so fucking MEAN, Jordan! You always have to be so stingy and fucking rude and I’m tired of it,” Beyoncé says, forcing herself to attempt to cry. 

 

“That's how you feel? You really wanna throw a fucking fit? Let's go, then,” Jordan says shortly, sternly. “Can I get the check, please?”

 

Beyoncé drinks her wine, staying quiet and resentful of Jordan, and he pays the bill. He stands up to leave and Beyoncé wordlessly follows suit. They don't hold hands as they walk out, and paparazzi get photos of them looking like the unhappiest couple in the world. 

 

Once they're back in the limo, Beyoncé isn't speaking. Jordan, however, is. 

 

“Throwing a tantrum in the middle of the fucking restaurant ‘cause I won't try and fuck you in the bathroom or some shit,” Jordan gripes. 

 

“I wasn't throwing a fit,” Beyoncé quietly lies. 

 

“Don't you even try lying like that, Beyoncé,” Jordan says, loosening his tie and undoing the first few buttons on his shirt. “Come here.”

 

“What if I’m mad at you?” Beyoncé asks, trying as hard as she can not to sound eager. “You  _ are  _ fussing at me on my birthday.”

 

“Come here,” Jordan says again softly, not entertaining Beyoncé’s sentiments. Beyoncé pouts and sits in his lap. He wraps his arms around her and talks in her ear. “‘M still gonna fuck you in this car. How’s that sound?”

  
Beyoncé pretends to be considering his offer before she nods. “That’s fine, I guess.”


	3. est-ce que tu aimes le sexe?

“I did not anticipate this dress being so hard to work around when I bought it for you,” Jordan says as he struggles to push Beyoncé's floor-length gown up while she lays across his lap.

 

Beyoncé giggles and Jordan finally gets her dress bunched up around her waist. 

 

“Now we're talkin’ money,” Jordan says, grabbing at Beyoncé's ass. 

 

She can feel the cool metal of the rings on his fingers on her skin, and she becomes a little more aware of how cold the car is in general. 

 

“It's cold.” 

 

Jordan slaps her roughly and she yelps, surprised, and squirms slightly in his lap. “What was that for?” she pretends to complain. 

 

“Birthday licks,” Jordan answers smacking her once more. “Gonna count for me, mama?”

 

“I suddenly can't count,” Beyoncé says humorously, halfheartedly trying to evade the coming situation. 

 

“It's cool, I can. You want me to count up or down?” Jordan asks with a laugh. 

 

“Down.”

 

“So be it,” he says. “We gotta start over, by the way.”

 

“Unfair!” 

 

“Complain and I’ll take my belt off.”

 

Beyoncé was always one to talk herself into things she couldn't completely handle when it came to Jordan, but even she knew she couldn't even begin to  _ fathom  _ that, so she kept her sentiments to herself. 

 

“Sorry,” she mumbles. 

 

“It's okay.” Jordan's hand comes down on her ass roughly, making Beyoncé make a muted noise of surprise. “25, for the years you’ve graced everyone with your amazing presence, and how many times I’m about to do this.”

 

Beyoncé's heart skips a beat. She couldn't count the ways she loved Jordan; it'd take her too long. He found a way to make anything he did, even things that were supposed to make him specifically happy, about her, and being apart from her was, for him, out of the question. 

 

_ Smack.  _ “24, for, uh- hm,” he says, trying to find something, anything. “Oh! Because 24 hours isn't enough time in a day to spend with you ever.” 

 

“Aw,” Beyoncé says. 

 

“I try.”  _ Smack.  _ “23, for how old I was when I met you and fell in love with you the same night.”

Beyoncé is endeared by Jordan's antics, she really is, but she’s also needy, and her plan to get something, anything from Jordan in the restaurant didn't work, so she's impatient. 

 

“Jordan, you're so slow.”

 

“22, 21, 20,” Jordan counts as he slaps her quickly. “That’s for you being fucking rude.”

 

Beyoncé bites her lip harshly, the yelp trying to come out of her turning into a rough groan. She smiles when she feels his hand soothingly running over the most likely red marks he’s made. When he slaps her again, however, a low whine comes from her.

 

“19, for how many kids I wanna have with you,” Jordan jokes.  _ Slap.  _ “18… nobody has anything fuckin’ significant for that number. Fuck it.”

 

“Wait! We walk around with our hands in each other’s pockets like we’re 18-year-olds,” Beyoncé offers.

 

“Cute.”  _ Smack.  _ “17, for how you make me feel when you look at me.”

 

Beyoncé’s heart could break on the spot, it’s so full of love for Jordan. Her cheeks are warm, and despite him not being able to see her because she’s bent over his knee, she beams. 

 

“Ditto.”

 

“16, 15, 14,” Jordan says quickly, spanking her and alternating cheeks, “because I can.”

 

Beyoncé can  _ hear  _ the smile in his voice over her own moans, and she wonders what’s stopping her from combusting on the spot.

 

“13, for the number of times I messed my vows up because you asked me to look at you while I said them and looking at you makes me nervous, because it forces me to think about how I don’t deserve you,” Jordan rambles.

 

“Sorry,” Beyoncé says. “Aren’t you forgetting…”

 

_ Smack.  _ “I could never forget, you know I don’t do shit halfway. 12.”  _ Slap.  _ “Because that’s how many Xanax I was on when I last saw that miserable son of a bitch Mathew.”

 

“12? Jordan,” Beyoncé whines. “don’t do that anymore.”

 

“Okay, babe. It was a joke. I wish I’d been that heavily sedated.”  _ Smack.  _ “11, for the number of times I wanted to ask to marry you while we were at your mother’s house for the first time- and that’s  _ only _ at  _ her _ house.”

 

“10- because Jesus, you’re a ten, 9, 8,” Jordan breathes out quickly, slapping her. “And that reminds me of our first New Year’s party. We counted down, kinda like I’m doing now, and we kissed, and you spilled your champagne on my shirt, so I took it off and caught a cold because we went outside and looked at the stars, and I was just out there without a shirt on because you were a little drunk and I was fuckin’... smacked.”

 

Beyoncé giggles. “Oops.”

 

“It’s fine, I’m still here, aren’t I? 7, because that’s a lucky number, and you make me the luckiest man in the world.”  _ Slap.  _

 

Beyoncé squirms in Jordan’s lap and her skin burns.

 

_ Smack.  _ “6, for that one time I gave you that many orgasms instead of the usual five because that was just a lucky day in general.”

 

“That was a good ass day,” Beyoncé says, “Fuck.”

 

“Right?”  _ Slap.  _ “5, for the number of stars all the restaurants we frequent have.”

 

“Sweet.”

 

He slaps her again, this time a little harder than all the rest. “I know, I’m Rico Suave. 4, because that’s your lucky number.”

 

“3, 2, 1- 1 being how many million lifetimes I would spend with you,” Jordan says.

 

Beyoncé sits up in a flash, jumping into his lap, straddling him, and kissing him fervently. “Fuck me,” Beyoncé says, mouth against his, “right now. I love you. My ass hurts.”

 

Jordan’s arms wrap around her, fumbling with the closure going down the back of her dress before he mumbles a short “fuck it,” and tears at it, buttons flying off as he does it. He reaches into his jacket, pulling a small baggie out of it. Coke, Beyoncé thinks. 

 

“It’s your birthday, and ladies go first, anyway,” Jordan says, holding it up to her.

 

She obliges, and after she's finished he pulls the top of her dress down, puts the rest of the contents of the bag on her chest. She scratches at his scalp as he gladly snorts away, giggling at the feeling of his facial hair against her skin. Jordan groans, sniffling, and kisses her. 

 

“We’re on top of the fucking world, Bey, I swear,” Jordan says into Beyoncé's neck as he kisses and bites down it. 

 

“Uh huh,” Beyoncé says. “That's nice, but I need you to fuck me, Jordan.”

 

“Impatient,” Jordan scolds, laying her down on the seat. “Don't get too mad at me.”

 

Beyoncé scowls in confusion. “Huh?”

 

Jordan forcefully rips at the front of her dress, tearing it and leaving her exposed, and she gasps. 

 

“Jordan!” she exclaims. “No!”

 

Jordan kisses down her body and grabs at her eagerly, and she's trying to pull his head up to make him listen to her fuss, but he's relentless. When he stops at her stomach, he looks up with a grin. 

 

“I’m surprised,” Jordan says, toying with the waistband of her underwear. “Thought you’d go with routine and not wear any to dinner.”

 

“I’m full of surprises.”

 

Jordan rubs Beyoncé's clit through soaked underwear and she immediately finds an issue with it. 

 

“Jordy,” Beyoncé whines, “stop making me wait, I wanna get fucked.”

 

“You’re gonna fucking wait,” Jordan says, pulling Beyoncé’s underwear to the side and slowly pushing a finger into her, ducking his head down so he can eat her out.

 

Beyoncé’s hands find their way to Jordan's hair again, and she finds herself able to pull more than usual. He lifts his head up to grin, his mouth a pretty, dark shade of pink from him putting it to good use. 

 

“I was worried you wouldn't notice like, ever, but I’ve been growing my hair out for you like you asked a while ago,” Jordan says. “Happy birthday?”

 

“Happy birthday to me,” Beyoncé says with a sigh as Jordan goes back to eagerly tasting her, adding a second finger and putting more effort into his movements. She rides his fingers messily, whimpering when they curl up, and his head comes up and he kisses her hard. She moans at the taste of herself on his tongue and at his hands working on her steadily. As the moments with him pass, she can feel herself getting closer to her breaking point. 

 

“This is what you were fussing about at the restaurant, huh?” Jordan asks, biting at Beyoncé's lip roughly. 

 

“Jordan- fuck!” Beyoncé manages to squeak out as she comes. Jordan doesn't stop what he's doing, opting instead to talk over her gasps and whines while he uses his other hand to fumble with his belt, button, and zipper on his pants. 

 

“You’re so fucking bratty, you know that?” Jordan pulls his pants down only as far as he needs to and sucks on his ring finger before he presses his middle one to Beyoncé's lips; she happily cleans it off, grabbing his hand and starting to suck on two fingers while she looks up at him. A sigh pushes its way past his parted lips, and he teases Beyoncé by rubbing the head of his dick against her clit slowly and repeatedly. 

 

“Jordan,” Beyoncé says. 

 

“Shh,” Jordan says, pushing into her with a quiet groan and stopping to hover over her, resting on his forearms. 

 

Beyoncé moves her hips eagerly, wanting some friction desperately. “Why'd you stop?”

 

“Tight,” Jordan answers, face in her shoulder as he begins to move again slowly. When he gets deep and circles his hips, Beyoncé bites her lip. 

 

“Understandable, thank you,” Beyoncé says, wrapping her legs around him and giggling. 

 

Jordan breathes out a laugh as he fucks her and it's followed by a short grunt. Beyoncé finds another reason to complain. 

 

“Jordan,” Beyoncé whines. 

 

Jordan sighs. “What now?”

 

Beyoncé moans quietly. “Why aren't you fucking me harder?”

 

“Because I wanna make it last, mama,” Jordan answers quickly, stopping his movements completely. His high must be hitting him, because he's speaking faster and breathing a little harder. “That's what you want, right?”

 

No, that is not what she wants, she wants Jordan disrespect her in the most low-down, animalistic manner possible, she wants to get  _ fucked _ , she doesn't want this man to make stupid  _ love  _ to her. However, she appreciates Jordan always putting her comfort and proper treatment first; she thinks it's sweet. 

 

“I want you to fuck me,” Beyoncé mumbles in between kisses from Jordan. “I don't want-”

 

“Sick of you fuckin’ complaining, Beyoncé,” Jordan says, pulling out and grabbing her legs. He pushes them back and she holds them. “I know it's your birthday, but- fuck.”

 

Jordan starts fucking her again, this time being rougher, and he slips two of his fingers into her mouth. She licks and sucks on them, which is subsequently making her stay quiet aside from muffled whimpers and needy moans that find their way out every now and then. He gets even rougher and it's too much for her; she lets go of her legs to push at his stomach as if she wants out. After she screams, he falls back easily, sitting down, taking his suit jacket off, and unbuttoning his shirt. 

 

“C’mere,” Jordan says, slumped a little in the seat. 

 

Beyoncé can feel her high slowly setting in, and everything for her is heightened, which explains why she could barely handle Jordan before. She crawls over to Jordan, not wasting any time cleaning him off. When he hits the back of her throat, she almost gags, and he sucks in a breath harshly. He holds her hair for her and gently thrusts into her mouth; because it’s her birthday, she pulls off of him just as he starts up a decent rhythm and smiles. 

 

“Beyoncé,” Jordan groans in protest.

 

Beyoncé  _ tsks  _ disapprovingly. “It’s my birthday, don’t fuss at me for my choices.”

 

Jordan rolls his eyes.

 

Beyoncé is hyperaware of everything around her when she’s on a coke high, she’d discovered that long ago, and when she climbs into the seat and onto Jordan’s lap she feels his breath fanning across her skin and her heart beating like it wants to catch up to a hummingbird’s, and everything inside (and out) of her is burning with the worst kind of need in the world. She puts her hands on Jordan’s shoulders, sinking onto him slowly, and when their hips meet, the rest of their bodies do too. They’re always one, always tangled in each other’s webs, separate entities but always surrounded by each other; Beyoncé likes that. Her hips grind against Jordan’s and her mouth finds his. They share a long, ardent kiss, slow and heavy, and Jordan moans quietly into Beyoncé’s mouth as she rides him. 

 

Jordan’s hands slip from her waist to her ass and he grabs at it, biting his lip hard. She can't see his eyes in the barely-lit car, but she remembers them all the same; his pupils are blown, irises a beautiful, shocking shade of blue. 

 

“Keep it up and I’m gonna lose my mind,” Jordan says, his words slurring together. 

 

“I want you to fuck me, Jordan,” Beyoncé says, “This isn’t good enough.”

 

Jordan doesn't have to be asked twice, he never does, and Beyoncé's arms are behind her back, intertwined with his. He holds her still and fucks her, deep and rough and somewhat unorderly, just how she always likes it. Beyoncé’s face is buried in his shoulder, and as he goes on, she feels as if she's on the verge of tears. 

 

“Fuck,” Beyoncé says, her voice barely there when it competes with the sound of skin on skin. 

 

Jordan tugs on her hair, tilting her head up so she's looking at him. “This is what you wanted, this is what you came for,” he says, grunting. “Right?”

 

Beyoncé tries her best to answer his question, but her current predicament makes things out to where she can only moan lowly in response. She wants to tell him that yes, she does want that and did come for that, but she also thinks that Jordan has to understand that being coherent is hard for her at a time like this.  

 

“I want an answer, babe,” Jordan tells her, fucking her more roughly than before. 

 

“I love it,” Beyoncé says, “I love it so much, baby, I love feeling you stretch me out and- Jordan-”

 

Beyoncé stops mid-thought because Jordan stops fucking her altogether, letting go of her arms. 

 

“Sit on my face,” he breathes. 

 

“How?” Beyoncé asks, confused, sucking in a breath when Jordan accidentally moves and she's reminded, twice over, that he's still inside of her. 

 

Jordan wordlessly opens the sunroof and looks at Beyoncé. She stares at him, then the sunroof, then him again. 

 

“ _ NO _ ,” she says as soon as she realizes what he wants her to do. “Boy, you must be out of your fuckin’ mind. No.”

 

“Baby,” he says, his tone inviting and daring and patronizing just enough for Beyoncé to find it funny. He laughs. “Let the wind blow through your hair, live a little.”

 

“I don’t wanna live a little if doing so includes indecent exposure.”

 

“Put my jacket on.”

 

Beyoncé sighs, putting Jordan’s jacket on, standing on the seat. Jordan’s hands slide up her legs, his fingers digging into her ass as he pulls her onto his face. Beyoncé sticks her head out of the sunroof, hair beginning to whip around in the wind. She rests an elbow on the roof of the car, one arm still inside of it so she can run her fingers through Jordan’s hair as he eats her out. He slides down in his seat slightly so he’s comfortable and moans; the sound is obviously muffled and she isn’t able to hear him because she’s (partially) outside of the car anyway, but she feels it, and that’s what has her hips grinding against his face and her wishing that he could hear her saying his name, but it gets lost in the wind that blows past her, a peace-bringing constant for the time being. She tilts her head back, every sound she makes for not just Jordan anymore, but the wind, and the passerby, and the moon, and when she opens her eyes, she sees the stars and the illuminated billboards that surround her. She sees people riding their bikes down the street and driving home from who knows where, and everything she looks at reminds her that everyone has their own definitions of normalcy, including her and Jordan, and at the end of the day they’ve done a lot of things right in order to be able to make one together.

 

It seems like Beyoncé’s only been in the position she’s in for a short while before Jordan’s making her come again, knees buckling a little, thighs wrapped tight around his head. 

 

“You good?” Jordan yells from below her.

 

Beyoncé comes down, stepping over Jordan carefully and sitting next to him, back against the window. She smiles. “I’m good. Come here,” she says, “I’m not done with you yet.”

 

Jordan pulls Beyoncé to him by her legs gently, smiling at her, and he’s easily inside of her again. The rhythm he sets is a lazy one; Beyoncé’s still sensitive from her last orgasm, so every move he makes causes her to try and squirm away from him and bite her lip hard to keep from sounding like she’s about to cry. Short whimpers come from her and Jordan’s hand finds hers, their fingers interlocking. Beyoncé knows Jordan’s somewhat close when his thrusts get rougher and his moans are more ragged and less spaced out. 

 

Beyoncé uses her free hand to rub her clit quickly, wanting to come with Jordan or at least help him along.

 

“Gonna push for 4 since it’s your birthday?” Jordan asks.

 

Beyoncé makes a noise of approval and he smiles. “You know it’s my lucky number,” she manages to squeak out.

 

“We’ll save number 4 for when we’re at home,” Jordan promises.

 

Jordan pushes Beyoncé’s legs up near her head and holds them there as he fucks her. She doesn’t stop herself from being loud anymore, grabbing onto Jordan’s arms and letting out frenzied yells and small screams and not being able to have a single coherent thought able to cross her mind. She doesn’t know if that’s because of Jordan or the drugs, but either way, she can only wish it doesn’t end. 

 

“Don’t stop,” is all Beyoncé can manage to get out dumbly, needily, before she comes moments later.

 

Jordan doesn’t stop, instead getting rougher, and Beyoncé’s eyes are screwed shut as she cries at the overstimulation. Jordan kisses her, causing a satisfying mess of bitten lips and moans in each other’s mouths. Deep groans turn into ones that are rasped out, and whines find their way to Beyoncé’s ears, and she think she might be close to losing her mind.

 

She grabs his face, looking into his eyes. “Are you gonna come for me, Jordan?” Beyoncé says, her voice rough, but encouraging nonetheless. 

 

Jordan moans, the sound deep and deprived. His forehead touches hers and she mutters praise for him, her holding his gaze and vice versa as he comes in her with short grunts. They lay together unmoving for a while, idly kissing each other every now and then and confessing their love for one another.

 

They get home a few moments later, and when Shawn tells them, Beyoncé dreads the silly-looking walk she’s bound to have when she gets out of the car. Jordan must read her mind in some way, because as she’s standing outside waiting for Jordan to get out of the car, he steps out, picks her up, and throws her over his shoulder.

 

“Jordan!” Beyoncé exclaims with a giggle.

 

“No one gets the gratification of seeing that messed up little walk of yours but me, mama,” Jordan says.

 

“Shut up.”

 

“I coulda told you that in the car, but I didn’t.”

 

“I hate you.”

  
“Happy birthday.”


End file.
